I bring them roses, fresh and bright,
They sigh, “They’re wilting—not quite right.”
I bake them bread, warm and sweet,
They frown, “Too dry—too much wheat.”

I weave my days with threads of care,
Each stitch a plea, “Please see me there.”
I carve my bones to shape their throne,
Yet all they see is dust and stone.

I break my back to build their dreams,
They scoff, “You should have done it clean.”
I trade my joy to earn their smile,
They turn away—it lasts a while.

The road I walk is paved with glass,
I bleed, I crawl, but still I ask,
“Is this enough?”—the words hang tight,
Yet vanish in the silent night.

They speak of love like bitter rain,
A flood of guilt, a tide of pain.
They love me best when I obey,
Yet mock the price I chose to pay.

But one day, I will lock the door,
Lay down the weight I always bore.
No flowers left, no songs unsung,
No war to fight—I’ve come undone.

And when they call, their voices shrill,
Demanding more, commanding still—
I’ll let the echoes fade away,
And love myself enough to stay.